A Scorpion's Last Sting
by praemonitus praemunitus
Summary: An A/U inspired by the final scene from episode 3x21. How could the events have unfolded if Wo Fat died at the hospital? Would he have had any "special plans" already in the works for our SEAL? Not a death-fic necessarily - rather a"what if" fic with a "to be continued next season" tag :)


**A/N **I know I have been absent for an obscene amount of time, and I have yet to finish my latest work in progress (which has not been abandoned, I swear). I can apologize till I turn blue in the face, but it won't change the fact that I haven't kept up on my promise to update in a timely fashion. I blame my employers who have been piling project after project on me without any breaks for the past month or so. I blame my crappy mood (largely as a result of non-stop work), my raging pregnancy hormones, and my crazy kids who take up whatever little is left of my time. Yes, I am slowly going insane.

Now, this story... this, whatever this is, was just something that popped into my brain after I watched the latest episode, and I told myself that I would sit down and write it down now, this minute, and take a break from work or else I am going to spontaneously combust (and it will not be pretty). So I did. Sat down, wrote it in literally an hour. I'm not sure what came out or how well (or poorly) it came out. Keep in mind that my mood is kind of dark lately, and this was what my brain came up with after it saw Steve at Wo Fat's bedside (again, blame it on all the stuff listed above).

Please, do keep in mind, that this story is intended as an A/U season finale - i.e. whatever happens after the screen fades to black would be picked up several months later.

I hope you can forgive my long silence (in both writing and reviewing) and give this story a few minutes. I would absolutely love to hear your thoughts, even if I might not have the time to respond to them.

So, here's hoping you enjoy this little A/U and keeping my fingers crossed that this work-related nightmare will let up soon.

* * *

He parked the car in the shade, careful to pick the least conspicuous spot available, but one that would still afford him a good view of the man he followed here. He has been trailing the guy for weeks, the poor devil being none the wiser. It was no surprise, of course – he was, after all, the best at what he did, and those, who hired him, usually wanted the best. Of course, the man who hired him for this particular job met an untimely demise (at the hands of his unknowing prey, too, from what he understood). And _**technically**_, technically, the death of his client rendered their contract null and void. Any other merc would have already walked away: the job was risky enough, and without a client to keep him in line, there was nothing really stopping him from packing his things and getting on the first flight out of Hawaii. Having been paid in advance, as he always demanded, taking advantage of his spotless reputation, he could have already left as well, and no one would have sought to come after him for an unfulfilled contract – his client's remains were currently cooling on a nondescript slab in a hospital morgue. Yet his reputation, the very thing he tried so hard to keep free from any unbecoming spots of failure, was on the line. He was paid to do a job. And, be his client alive or not, his professional conscience wouldn't allow him to walk away from it.

He shut off the motor and leaned back against the seat, watching pensively as the tall dark-haired figure of his prey strode slowly but purposefully between the rows of flat headstones before coming to a slightly stiff, measured stop in front of one. _A parent? A wife?_

He watched for a few more minutes, as the man continued to stare at the headstone in front of him, head bent and shoulders slumped in a gesture of defeat or exhaustion. He let him have those few extra minutes. He wasn't a cruel man. He always allowed his victims one final mercy, a few extra minutes in a life that is no longer theirs.

Finally it was time, and he pushed his door open with one hand, his other sliding once more underneath his light jacket to finger the smooth handle of the knife hidden there. He let his hand drop back to his side, frowning disgustedly. He didn't like knifes. Too messy, too personal. He would have preferred a bullet to the heart – a quick, clean death. But his client insisted that he wanted this one to be personal... and prolonged; he wanted this man to die in agony, knowing who it was that had sanctioned his murder. And, well, whether he liked it or not, a client (even a dead one) was always right.

He moved silently toward his prey, watching him stand there calm, unawares, stopping an arm's length away.

"Commander McGarrett!"

His prey stiffened at the unexpected call and turned instinctively toward him. Just as he was supposed to. A clean, perfect angle. The dark blue eyes narrowed in confusion, scanning the unfamiliar face. A fraction of a second later they widened impossibly in pain and surprise, as he crossed the distance between them in one swift calculated move, his left hand gripping the tall man's shoulder, while his right one shot forward and up, plunging the knife into his prey's unprotected body.

The man gasped, shuddering in his grasp, as he forced the blade deeper into his abdomen with a sharp violent thrust.

"A farewell from Wo Fat," he explained calmly, before abruptly pulling the knife out and releasing his victim. He was already walking away, when he heard the unmistakable and so oft heard thud of the weakened knees hitting the ground.

H50 H50 H50 H50 H50

It took Danny almost an hour (and a good amount of ranting and cursing) to track down his wayward partner. The frantic search, as is always the case where McGarrett is concerned, began with a phone call. From the hospital, this time. The doctor, who treated Wo Fat, called him a little over an hour ago to inform him that his patient was dead and ask him if there would be any instructions for the body, since Commander McGarrett had just walked out of the hospital like "a bat from hell" without so much as a word to either him or the rest of the staff. So of course Danny worried. Steve's nemesis was dead, suddenly and in a rather uneventful (by Wo Fat's standards) manner. And Danny didn't have to be a psychologist to know that such an abrupt ending to a conflict as vicious, as painfully personal, and as drawn-out as theirs had to be wreaking havoc with his friend's already vulnerable emotions. Knowing his friend's propensity for getting in more trouble at precisely such times when his emotional state was holding together by a few pitiful threads (the incident with former Gov. Jameson alone was proof enough), Danny didn't even bother waiting for the doctor to acknowledge his absent-minded promise to look into Wo Fat's post-mortem situation before hanging up. A fraction of a second later his fingers were already thumbing nervously for McGarrett's number.

Steve's cell phone, quite predictably, went straight to voice mail, and Danny expressed his frustration in a few well-chosen heartfelt expressions. McGarrett's landline was next. After a few exasperatingly futile attempts at reaching him that way, Danny decided to swing by Steve's house anyway in the hope that his stubborn partner was there but simply refusing to pick up the phone. When the house turned up empty, Danny tried the office and even the apartment of Steve's mother – same result. He even called Duke at HPD and Kamekona to see if either of them had seen the missing SEAL or had heard of any drunken disturbances in the nearby bars that might point to his partner's involvement. Nothing.

His worry spiking, Danny was about to do something as desperate as paying a visit to Adam Noshimuri – because what if Wo Fat had said something to Steve before dying? Something that once again pointed a finger at the Yakuza in connection with his father's death. And what if Steve, being Steve, decided to go and confront them? The thought of Noshimuri, however, brought with it another – so simple that Danny all but facepalmed himself for not having thought of it sooner. The next second he was on the phone with Kono – the ass-kicking, GPS-tracking, no-computer-system-is-so-complex-that-I-can't-figu re-out-how-to-work-it Kono – and urgently begging her to find him the location of Steve's car.

Moments later he had it – the National Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific – and he was ready to facepalm himself again, because, seriously, how could he not have thought of that place. Even though calmer now that he knew McGarrett's whereabouts, Danny still found himself speeding on the way there ... just in case.

He parked beside Steve's blue Silverado and climbed out, looking in the direction where he vaguely remembered once visiting the grave of McGarrett senior with his partner. Sure enough, Steve was there – shoulders hunched in silent anguish.

But he wasn't alone. There was a man coming toward him – calm and purposeful and... There was just something about him that made the hairs on the back of Danny's neck stand up and something unpleasant clench in his gut. And Danny, well, he was used to listening to his gut. It is what had kept him (and quite often his partner, even though the latter refused to admit it) alive in many a-dicey situation. So he began walking toward them. And then the walk turned into a run, as he saw the other man suddenly pull Steve toward him in what looked like an overenthusiastic one-armed man-hug.

Danny was already half way to the pair, when the stranger pulled back, releasing his friend as abruptly as he had grabbed him. The Jersey native slowed down, watching the other man walk away, even as he considered whether or not to give chase. But then his gaze landed back on his partner, and he broke into a full-out frantic dash. Because what he saw was _Steve_ with his right arm clasped suspiciously tightly around his middle; _Steve_ swaying feebly on his feet as from a sudden head rush; _Steve_ dropping heavily onto his knees by his father's grave.

"No, no, no, no!" The breathless mantra continued, as he ploughed through the remaining few yards that separated them and dropped to his knees before his partner, only just managing to catch the taller man, who had finally lost his semi-conscious battle with gravity.

"Steven? Steve!" he patted the other man's cheek none-too-gently, forcing him to stay awake, to stay with him, to stay...

Phone shouldered against his ear, his left hand pressing hard and vicious against the wound – and, God, why did there have to be so much blood – he barked out hurried disjointed phrases into the microphone, hoping, knowing that his teammates won't let him down.

"Wo... F-fat..."

The gasped out, breathless words drew his attention once again to his partner's nearly ashen face. "The guy that was here?" he asked confused, worried that his friend might already be losing touch with reality. But then, suddenly, he understood. "That bastard sent him, didn't he?"

The weak nod only served to fuel the rage that was already building up inside him, making him regret he didn't have the honor of personally escorting Wo Fat to the "other side" and making the bastard's last few moments on this Earth as excruciating as possible. The man was a damn scorpion. You squash it and it still manages to deliver a deadly sting.

Steve gasped sharply for air, his hand tightening convulsively around Danny's own, and he pulled the former SEAL tighter toward him, seeking as much to comfort the injured man as to be reassured by the pained, desperate gasps that his friend was still here. "Hang on, buddy," he croaked uselessly, as another shuddering gasp left the pale, bloodless lips. "Hang on, you hear. Help's on the way. Steve?"

Selfishly, he pressed harder on the wound, eliciting a soft, pitiful moan from the prone SEAL. "There's no way in hell you are leaving me like this, McGarrett," he hissed, shaking the injured man as if to emphasize the point. "Think of the paperwork I'll end up getting stuck with for this."

The joke fell flat, as the dark blue eyes lifted sluggishly toward him, flickering with regret. "S..ry... D..nno..." And then his friend's eyes slid closed, even as the sounds of blaring sirens filled the deadly quiet of the cemetery.

FIN


End file.
